


A Strange Affection

by Anne_Fairchild



Category: Agent Pendergast Series - Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 23:15:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14412588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anne_Fairchild/pseuds/Anne_Fairchild
Summary: Set immediately post-Brimstone. D’Agosta goes looking for Pendergast, finds him, and learns something about both of them.





	A Strange Affection

  
Vincent D’Agosta had never before been consumed by utter, total hatred. He hoped it would sharpen his wits as well as his determination. A lot of luck wouldn’t hurt either.

He couldn’t let that bastard Fosco win. The fact that this was the first and, he hoped, only time in his life that he’d hunted down an unarmed man and murdered him slowly in cold blood, enjoying every second of the man’s death, hardly registered with him at this point.

Now that the deed was done, the most important thing was finding Pendergast, whether that meant dead or alive. He’d been sure Pendergast was dead when he’d been escorted off the premises of Castel Fosco by Esposito’s men earlier in the day. Fosco had had plenty of men and opportunity - and he had Pendergast’s medallion. That’s what had finally sent D’Agosta over the edge, completely destroying the possibility of any further help from Esposito.

Alternately numb with grief or raging, he had gathered up his and Pendergast’s belongings from the hotel and had paid cash plus a hefty bribe to rent another car, avoiding the use of ID that Esposito could trace. He’d outfitted himself in black pants, sweater and watch cap, and smeared his face with camouflage. He carried his gun and plenty of ammo, a knife, candles, matches and a couple of electric lanterns as well as Fosco’s diabolical invention, heading back up the hill in the middle of the night, lights out, crawling at about 5 mph.

It had been ridiculously easy. The too-clever Count had apparently thrown caution to the wind in his belief that his adversaries had both been taken out, one way or another. It quickly became apparent to D’Agosta that the slimeball was alone. As soon as he realized that, the cop knew what was going to happen.

He’d thought about cornering Fosco and forcing him to lead him to Pendergast - thought about it for five seconds. The Count would rather die than give up Pendergast, so he would, indeed - but without the infuriating banter the fat prick loved to indulge in. Once Fosco was toast - literally, then he could set about looking for Pendergast. The weapon itself was destroyed in short order.

D’Agosta’s nose wrinkled with the stench of Fosco’s blubber. Where in the hell in this damp, moldly pile of bricks could Pendergast be? Was he alive, or dead? Or was he not even here? Had he been torn to pieces by the dogs and left to rot on the hillside? The sound of their frenzied baying came back to D’Agosta, and he shuddered. No, that was something he just wasn’t ready to think about yet. There was a castle to search first.

First, he went back to the rooms they’d been held in, the rooms Fosco had done such a slick remodel job on. He tapped and prodded and thumped, but didn’t find any secret compartments or false walls. He went up then, into the highest reaches of the building. He marveled at the ostentatious luxury, cursing Fosco’s name, but found nothing out of the ordinary.

He went back to the kitchen and explored a few of the passageways leading out and down, the ones he and Pendergast had alternately raced and stumbled through. Nothing.

Sweat running into his eyes, heart pounding, D’Agosta sat in the kitchen, gulping water and trying to think like Pendergast. Yeah, as if he ever could. He’d never known anyone in his life like the FBI agent, and he never would again. Smart as a whip, but somehow down to earth too, and however much he knew, when he shared it with you, he…well, shared it with you. He was never superior, never talked down to you. Never made you feel like an ignorant wop flatfoot, like that ass Braskie.

It was Pendergast who’d rescued him from Braskie and Southampton. Given him a chance to do something important again, to regain his self-respect. It was because of Pendergast that he and Laura….

He wasn’t going to leave the man here, dead or alive. Vincent D’Agosta was going to have the last word here, not Count Isidor Fucking Fosco. Tired and frustrated, he pressed his thumbs against his brows and thought of the last conversation they’d had in the hotel room, before setting out for the castle.

“I have to do this,” Pendergast had explained softly. “You do not. I would personally prefer it if you didn’t come.”

“I said, we’re in this together,” he’d insisted, afraid that Pendergast would somehow manage to keep him away. The FBI agent’s next words had surprised him, and he blushed even now, alone, remembering them.

“I knew this would be your answer, Vincent, and I am glad. I have come to rely on your common sense, your steadiness, and your shooting ability, among other excellent qualities.” A light touch along his arm had accompanied the words, underlining their sincerity. Something about that touch, and the simple, quiet gratitude in Pendergast’s voice, had touched D’Agosta in a way he couldn’t express, even if there were someone to express it to. He doubted Laura would understand, or agree with him, anyway. Well, Pendergast was Pendergast, and Laura was Captain Laura Hayward of the NYPD, and that particular twain wasn’t ever going to meet in the way D’Agosta would like it to, so that was that. But Vince knew that he had to do this for Pendergast, even if it was only as a last tribute.

THINK, Vinnie, think! What the hell would a megalomaniac like Fosco do with a trophy like Pendergast? Well, 300 years ago, he would have probably kept him in the castle dungeon and thrown away the key. D’Agosta froze, setting the water glass down carefully. Okay. Down, then. In the dungeons and crypts of the castle. Crypts. Oh Jesus, that did sound like something Fosco would come up with!

D’Agosta rose, shouldered his pack, and headed for the first stairway leading down. An hour later, drenched in sweat despite the building’s ancient dampness, he was back in the kitchen again. Dammit! Shit. He looked at his watch: 2:47 a.m.

After more water, he went to the next stairway, and as he descended, thought that just maybe, his light was picking up signs of recent passage. Down, and down, into complete darkness. He patted his pockets to assure himself that the extra batteries were indeed with him, and that his fully loaded pistol was also snug in his pocket.

Yes, the dust in the passageway had been trod on recently, and by more than one set of footprints. He made another red X on the wall at a turning. No way was he going to get lost in this overblown pile of crap

“Pendergast! Pendergast, it’s D’Agosta! Can you hear me?” Silence, as his voice echoed in the black caverns. Vince sighed. At least, whatever he was going to find, he was pretty sure he was headed in the right direction now, and there would be something, hopefully someone, to find.

After what seemed like a hell of a long time, the passageway ended. Determined, as Pendergast had taught him, not to have any expectations as to what he should be looking for, D’Agosta put down his bag and began to go over every inch of the area with the light. Scuffles in the fine brick dust. Brick dust. D’Agosta thought of the speedy brickwork that had been accomplished in his few hours’ absence upstairs. He peered very closely at the walls around him. Did that spot look almost damp?

“Pendergast! It’s Vincent! Can you hear me?” He held his breath, listening. At first there was no sound except the faint dripping of moisture from the ancient walls.

“Please, Pendergast. If you can hear me, do something!” he begged. He wondered if he imagined an answering noise, a faint metallic sound, coming from beyond the wall to his right. Whatever it might be, it was enough. It was worth a shot. Anything was worse than not knowing; than maybe never knowing.

His mouth twisted into a bitter smile when he spied an ancient stone hammer, half buried beneath the rubble of centuries. Did you forget that, Count Asshole? He picked it up, gave it a good swing, and connected with the bricks. Some of them slid inward far easier than they should have. Yes! D’Agosta smashed at the wall like a madman, ignoring the stabs of pain in his back and shoulders.

In the space of about 15 minutes, he’d managed to knock a two by two foot hole in the middle of the wall. He held the lantern up and looked through the hole. His heart sank as he made out the figure within, chained to the far wall. It sure as hell didn’t look alive.

“Pendergast?” he called. There was no vocal response, but he thought he saw the head move slightly.

“It’s okay, Pendergast. I’ll get you out of there.” D’Agosta renewed his assault on the bricks, and in another half an hour the hole was large enough to admit him, and to get Pendergast out.

Apprehensively, he placed his fingers against Pendergast’s carotid artery. It took a minute, but eventually he felt a faint thrum. Thank God he wasn’t too late. He held Pendergast’s head up and trickled water over his face and mouth. He was rewarded with a soft intake of breath and a faint moan.

“Drink,” D’Agosta encouraged, letting the water flow slowly into Pendergast’s mouth. At first it only spilled out again; Pendergast didn’t swallow. But after a few seconds he managed to down a little and, recognizing what it was, then gulped at it, gagging and choking.

“Hey, easy, easy,” D’Agosta shook his head, backing off. Pendergast nodded; it was his first direct communication.

“You’re getting out of here, buddy,” D’Agosta assured him. His eyes went to the chains, which threatened to crush Pendergast, and their fastenings against the wall. He looked closely. Great. If he could get the bolts away from the wall, all the chains should fall away. D’Agosta reached in his pocket and pulled out his gun.

“This is gonna be damn loud. Just hold still for a minute and we can get the hell outta here,” he told Pendergast, not knowing whether he was capable of understanding or not, but having no choice in any case.

Stepping back, taking aim as carefully as possible in the dim light, D’Agosta fired off three shots – one for each of the iron staples that secured Pendergast’s chains. At the first shot, Pendergast’s head snapped back and D’Agosta glimpsed confusion and fear in the pale face. When the chains gave way, his limbs would not support him.

D’Agosta reached him before he hit the floor, cradling Pendergast’s body against his. Uncontrolled muscular tremors coursed through Pendergast and he gasped painfully for air, as if he would never draw in enough. D’Agosta wondered just how long he’d been in here, and how long it would have been before the air ran completely out.

“It’s okay, buddy. It’s okay. Fat-Ass is history. Nothing to worry about now. You just take it easy,” D’Agosta soothed. “Drink some more, but slow, okay?” Pendergast nodded, and gradually consumed the rest of the bottle. He lay, panting and trembling, in D’Agosta’s arms. After a several minutes, he attempted to speak.

“How did - ?” It was obvious that the words cost him a tremendous effort.

“We can talk later. I’ll tell you everything I know. But we don’t have to do it now. No explanations until we’re out of here, and safe. Talk can wait, but you can’t. Okay?” D’Agosta half-ordered, half-suggested. He was a little surprised at Pendergast’s simple, silent acquiescence. It spoke volumes about his condition.

D’Agosta took his jacket off and pulled it around Pendergast’s shoulders, then lowered him gently to the floor. He crawled back through the hole in the bricks, taking all his gear except one lantern, which he left burning at Pendergast’s side. He lit the other lantern, and then went back in.

“Think you can hang on to the light?” D’Agosta asked, hoisting Pendergast to his feet, pulling Pendergast’s arm over his shoulder. There was a nod. D’Agosta put Pendergast’s wrist through the lantern handle, hoping he had enough muscle control to hang onto it until they were through the hole. He dragged the agent towards the opening. When they reached it, he placed Pendergast’s hands against the wall above the hole, and released him.

“Just hang in there for a minute. I’ll go through and pull you out.” He had already realized that it didn’t look as if Pendergast was going to be able to leave the tunnels on his own power. Once he was on the other side, D’Agosta reached through and grasped Pendergast under each arm, trying to take as much of his weight as possible.

“Okay, come on,” he encouraged. With a pained grunt, Pendergast bent his head and folded his long legs when required, and came through the wall, though he immediately sank to the floor, gasping for breath again. D’Agosta put the lantern up to his face and saw that it was covered with large areas of dried blood, and many cuts and scratches.

“You don’t have to talk, just answer with a nod or a shake. Anything broken? Are you hurt bad?” D’Agosta asked. There was a longer hesitation than he was happy about, but finally Pendergast moved his head slightly: no.

“I’m getting you to a hospital as soon as we get out of here.”

“Not…neces..sary, Vin…cent.” The words were so soft he almost missed them.

“I think this time, I’ll be the judge of that.” There was no contradiction.

“Ready to go up?”

Pendergast’s eyes closed, and then opened again. He looked up at D’Agosta. “ ‘es,” he mouthed.

“Okay, tiger, here we go,” D’Agosta smiled wryly, hoisting Pendergast upright. “Slow and easy.”

They made their way up through the tunnels and the many stairs. All they both wanted, D’Agosta knew, was to be as far away as fast as possible, but it wasn’t going to happen any time soon. First one lantern fell from Pendergast’s grip, and later D’Agosta dropped the other, his arm paralyzed by Pendergast’s weight. Pendergast needed to rest frequently, and D’Agosta took the opportunity to do the same. His body was starting to protest the abuse of the last couple of days.

It seemed to take hours before they reached the last stairs before the kitchen, and then were in the kitchen itself. A pale gray dawn had broken not long before. As he placed Pendergast in a chair, D’Agosta looked at his watch: 6:17 a.m.

He brought more water, and then rummaged in the kitchen cupboards until he found some brandy. He poured a couple of fingers’ worth into a glass and held it to Pendergast’s lips. In a moment or two, a faint bit of color emerged in the agent’s cheeks.

“You want anything to eat?” D’Agosta asked. Pendergast shook his head.

“We must…get out of…here. Quickly.”

“Not until I’ve seen to your face, and taken a quick look at the rest of you. I told you, Fosco’s dead. No worries there,” D’Agosta reminded him. “And I don’t think Esposito’s coming back at this hour.”

At the mention of Fosco, Pendergast stilled. He cocked his head, and seemed to sniff the air. He sniffed again, and then turned to look at D’Agosta, regarding him intently.

“Well done, Vincent,” he whispered, with a slight nod.

“He sure as hell is.” It slipped out before D’Agosta could stop himself. It took a second, but he could swear he saw a hint of what might have been a brief smile on Pendergast’s lips. Relief washed over D’Agosta, both because Pendergast felt well enough to appreciate the accidental humor, and because the agent demonstrated no hint of censure at what he’d done.

“Leave now,” Pendergast repeated a moment later.

“You swear you aren’t gonna crap out on me in the car if we do?” Pendergast nodded. “Okay. Just let me try and find some first aid supplies or something,” D’Agosta agreed. He left the room for several minutes, returning with an armful of medical supplies he’d found in one of Fosco’s palatial bathrooms.

“I hope this is enough, Pendergast. I’m still not sure that you shouldn’t - “

“Vincent. Please.” The effect of those words, and their subdued tone, was instantaneous.

“Yeah, okay, buddy. Right now. I’ll just put these in the car and come back for you.” It was obvious that this was something Pendergast wasn’t eager to agree to, but apparently he saw the wisdom in the plan, and nodded again.

Pendergast was coming close to scaring D’Agosta. He was plenty beat up, but there didn’t seem to be anything seriously physically wrong with him. He could talk, and move reasonably well, even if he had no strength. But there was something in his body language and in his eyes that hurt D’Agosta to see. This man who was undefeatable, who was always one step head of everyone else, who was invincible, was, D’Agosta thought, on the edge of losing it…losing himself. He had to keep that from happening, but he didn’t know how. His own life had been in Pendergast’s hands quite a few times; please God he didn’t blow things for Pendergast now.

Once outside in the fresh air, Pendergast gave a shudder and filled his lungs, again and again. Then he gave D’Agosta a faint, reassuring smile, and they proceeded to the car. D’Agosta settled him in the passenger seat. He tucked a blanket around the still trembling Pendergast. It was all he could do for now.

Roaring down the hill, D’Agosta’s only thought was to put miles, and distance, between the two of them and Castel Fosco, and Esposito and his men. They had to get out of Florence and its environs. Back to Capraia?

Their meeting with the Maskelene woman had given him an odd feeling. He hadn’t stopped to think about it then, but he realized later that Pendergast and the woman had been taken with each other. She definitely seemed like his type. He hadn’t wanted to think about why in the hell he was thinking about Pendergast and what his ‘type’ might be, either. He’d recognized the feeling belatedly as jealousy. Was he crazy? Yeah, he probably was, especially if his first thought was to get Pendergast back to her.

Slowly, with sidelong glances at Pendergast to see how much he was taking in, D’Agosta related the events, which had taken place after he’d unwillingly abandoned his partner to Fosco’s men and the dogs, making sure that Pendergast understood that he didn’t need to reciprocate. There would be time enough for that when he had satisfied himself that Pendergast really was okay. Was it weird, thinking of Pendergast as a partner of sorts? No, D’Agosta didn’t think so; they had been some kind of team all right, ever since Southampton. At Pendergast’s invitation, too.

He drove a couple of hours before stopping in a small town and buying some bread, wine and cheese. Still silent, Pendergast did at last eat. He no longer seemed upset or in pain, he just seemed exhausted. They needed to stop somewhere, but not yet. Esposito could have a very long arm if he chose to.

Checking their supply of lira, hoping Pendergast had some way of obtaining more money in the next day or so, D’Agosta began to look for a place to stay. He found a likely looking village another hour or so along the road. Instead of trying out his bastard Italian, D’Agosta came on as the Americano tourist, asking if there was a small pensione in town with a room for him and his traveling companion, who was ill – too much wine and sun. Yes, there was such a place, run by the widow Torelli. Hallelujah. Something was going right for a change.

At last, they were safe; as safe as they could be while still on Italian soil, at any rate. The room was small, but clean. A large bed with a feather mattress and duvet occupied most of it. D’Agosta opened the window. The room looked out on a little courtyard, the yellowed walls covered with vines and greenery. Birds twittered softly in the morning air. It would definitely do.

D’Agosta asked the widow’s daughter for some hot water and soap, and when it arrived, he turned his attention to Pendergast, who lay where D’Agosta had left him on the bed, silent and absolutely still, worn out with the effort of breathing. He was curled in a sort of fetal position. Jesus, he looked damn awful.

D’Agosta removed Pendergast’s mud-crusted shoes and his socks and placed them on the floor in a corner. When he checked out Pendergast’s suitcase, if he had spares of anything, what was left of his current clothes would go in the signora’s trash. The expensive white shirt was in shreds. D’Agosta tried not to move Pendergast very much while he was taking it off, but he needn’t have worried; the agent remained completely limp under his hands, his eyes never opening. He had the feeling that if Fosco had risen from the dead and was coming after Pendergast with a knife right now, he wouldn’t be able to lift a finger in his defense. He hated seeing Pendergast like this.

Trousers came next. Hesitating for a moment, D’Agosta slid the finely knit briefs down Pendergast’s thighs, and off. They too went onto the corner pile.

Besides his head, neck and shoulders, which seemed to have taken the brunt of Fosco’s and the dogs’ abuse, bruises mottled Pendergast’s torso here and there, as well as his arms and legs. There didn’t seem to be any major injuries or broken bones. Carefully, D’Agosta turned him onto his side so he could look at his back. Nothing nasty there, either. Maybe he had been lucky after all, when you thought of what that monster Fosco could have done to him, if he’d had the time and opportunity. Being buried alive was bad enough, but maybe it wasn’t the worst that could have happened.

“Pendergast?” D’Agosta called softly. The pale eyes flickered half open. “You want some brandy? It’s gonna hurt, cleaning you up. Some of these cuts look like they’re infected.”

“Yes.”

Not the usual ‘yes, thank you, Vincent’. The effort to speak was still taking a lot out of him. He sure as hell had a right to his exhaustion. Any ordinary man, something that Pendergast certainly was not, would have been dead at Fosco’s hands long ago. It was only his extraordinary will to live, along with all the other extraordinary parts of him, which had kept him alive.

D’Agosta poured a very healthy slug of the liquor into a glass and held Pendergast’s head while he drank, inhaling the alcoholic fumes.

“Okay?” Pendergast nodded, and D’Agosta laid his head back on the pillow. He went to the bags he’d brought in from the car to get the medical supplies. Caught unaware, when he turned to the bed again his eyes registered Pendergast in a way that hit him like a body blow.

The agent lay as if sleeping, his battered nakedness completely exposed. D’Agosta didn’t know what he’d expected of Pendergast in that department, since his physique was always fully concealed in those undertaker suits he wore, but it definitely wasn’t this. The man had the gracefully sculpted body of a gymnast, or a swimmer. Slim but muscled forearms, broad shoulders. Defined chest, flat stomach. Narrow waist. Finely muscular thighs and calves. And lying flaccid against his thigh…why the hell was he zeroing in on the man’s dick at a time like this, fer crissakes?

Pull yourself together, Vinnie.  What the hell is wrong with you? You aren’t like that Grove character, and neither is Pendergast. You’re married, you’re sleeping with Laura, and Pendergast was married once, so just stop. Stop!

Mentally giving himself a good shake, D’Agosta sat on the side of the bed, horrified to realize that he was halfway to hard. A moment later, however, as he put a wet cloth over Pendergast’s face, the agent’s soft groan immediately deflated his wayward libido and returned him to the task at hand.

The cuts and abrasions were numerous, some deep and glowing a nasty red. D’Agosta worked carefully to remove the dried blood and dirt, trying not to hurt Pendergast any more than he had to. He lay mostly still and quiet under D’Agosta’s hands, but some of the cop’s actions brought a sharp hiss of breath, or a frown, and occasionally an unprotected moan. He was only human, after all. A fact that D’Agosta was having a little trouble adjusting to.

“Sorry, buddy,” D’Agosta murmured, squeezing Pendergast’s hand slightly. There was a faint answering squeeze. His eyes opened and he smiled briefly at D’Agosta before they fell shut again.

Once the most evil-looking injuries on Pendergast’s face and neck were tended to with antibiotic ointment, D’Agosta made an attempt at washing the crud out of his hair, and also wiped down the rest of him. He wanted to get the stench of Fosco off of his friend as much or more than Pendergast wanted it, probably. He was uncomfortably aware of Pendergast’s body again, in that way he shouldn’t be. He tried to put it out of his mind by covering him with the duvet, with only partial success.

“I found this in the medical supplies. It’s an antibiotic, isn’t it, like penicillin?” D’Agosta asked, holding the vial before Pendergast’s face. The agent took a moment to focus, and then nodded. “There’s a needle here. I think you should have some of it, just in case. Can you tell me how much to use?”

Pendergast regarded the numbers on the vial. “Half,” he murmured. D’Agosta drew the fluid up into the needle and then pressed it gently into Pendergast’s arm. When he was done, he shook a couple of yellow pills out of a bottle, poured some water and raised Pendergast’s head.

“Pain pills,” he explained. Pendergast frowned, and shook his head.

“Don’t worry. I’m gonna be right here. You think you can get rid of me, you’re nuts. And if you think you’re not taking these, you’re nuts again,” D’Agosta insisted. He waited until Pendergast reluctantly opened his mouth,

“You need sleep, and I need to wash. I’m only going down the hall to use the toilet and get some more hot water, and I’ll be back. “Go on,” D’Agosta encouraged softly, “get some sleep.” He waited several minutes until Pendergast’s eyes finally closed for good and his body relaxed into sleep, and then he went down the hall, leaving the door open. The only sounds in the pensione were the zizzing of insects and the occasional chirp of a bird, and the rhythmic slapping of bread dough from the widow’s kitchen.

 

                                                                       ***

 

After cleaning himself up and changing clothes, D’Agosta made sure that Pendergast still slept. He went to the head of the stairs and called down to the kitchen. For a few extra lira, their food would be brought up on a tray and left at the door. D’Agosta realized he was starving. Pendergast alive had given him his appetite back.

He sat in the room’s only chair and watched Pendergast sleep as he ate a plain but excellent zuppa di fagioli accompanied by fresh bread smeared with some kind of sharp-tasting cheese. It was simple, but tasted heavenly. He went lightly on the wine, wanting to stay alert.

As the morning sun moved directly overhead and then headed slowly across the rooftops to the other side of the house, D’Agosta dozed a little, but mostly kept his eye on Pendergast. The first hour or so of the agent’s sleep he seemed to be deeply under, his features devoid of expression. As time passed, however, and the pain pills and brandy wore off, lines of suffering seemed to emerge in the finely sculpted features. His face seemed even paler than usual, and very drawn.

D’Agosta found himself wondering what he could do to take those lines of pain away. Pendergast was a good man, who had put a lot of very bad people away forever, one way or another. D’Agosta thought that since they’d come to Italy, maybe Pendergast had shared a little more of himself that he usually did. It made D’Agosta proud that Pendergast had confided in him even a little. He was obviously the most guarded of men, so it meant a lot that he had shared some of his thoughts and emotions; even that he was letting D’Agosta see his pain. He was a man, just like any other man.

The thought brought D’Agosta up short, and reminded him of his earlier reaction to Pendergast’s nakedness. Why was he having these feelings? Why was he somehow drawn to Pendergast in a way he’d have sworn he’d never be to any man? Because of his emotional connection? Yeah, okay, maybe. He was feeling protective and mother-henish. Weird, and not like him, but understandable with a partner. Except that didn’t really explain the rest of it --- the way he’d felt when he looked at Pendergast naked, saw his dick…and wanted to touch it. Touch it in a way that would please Pendergast. Please them both. He’d wanted to hold Pendergast and touch him and…. Damn it, he wasn’t gay, he had a wife and son to prove that. What the hell was going on?

Suddenly, his mind went back to the beginning, to Pendergast standing there on the beach at Grove’s estate, calmly discussing Grove’s sex life with Braskie.

“Mr. Grove had, ah, perverse sexual tastes.”  
Pendergast had raised his eyebrows. “How so?”  
“He liked men and women.”  
“And the perverse sexual tastes?””  
“Just what I said – men and women.”  
“You mean he was bisexual? As I understand it, thirty percent of all men have such tendencies.”

Pendergast had been so matter-of-fact that it had tickled him, at the time, to see Braskie caught so off-guard. Clearly, Pendergast didn’t consider it a perversion or an aberration at all, just a fact of life. Was that what he was feeling? Did Pendergast feel that way because he - ? Was it really true? A third? If it was, then what he was feeling maybe wasn’t so weird after all.

“A little of that soup would be quite welcome, Vincent.”

D’Agosta jumped. Pendergast was awake, looking at him through clear if weary eyes. He still looked haggard, but merely tired instead of exhausted.

“Better?” D’Agosta asked, bringing the tray to the bedside. He helped Pendergast sit up, propping the pillows behind him.

“Better indeed, Vincent, thanks to you. Much obliged.” Pendergast dipped his head to D’Agosta. The words were controlled, measured, sounding mostly like the in-control Pendergast, but the agent’s facial expression said much more. It expressed his true thanks quite clearly.

“I’m just glad you’re okay. If that bastard had - “, D’Agosta returned, rather flustered. He half wondered if Pendergast could have read his thoughts a few minutes ago.

“Quite. Fortunately, he didn’t, and he will trouble the world no more, thanks to you. As I said before, sans the inadvertent pun this time, well done.”

“Thanks,” D’Agosta murmured, watching Pendergast tuck into the soup, “that means a lot. I was afraid you’d be pissed off at me. That is, if you…if I found you.”

Pendergast’s gaze was steady.

“No, Vincent. As I told you, I have come to trust your judgment. And I must confess to feeling an odd pleasure in that perhaps your…enthusiasm for the task, was motivated in some small way by your concern for my welfare.”

“Damn right,” D’Agosta returned. He turned away and poured some wine for Pendergast to hide his embarrassment.

“Please, make yourself comfortable. There is only one bed, and we must share it. It won’t do to have you sitting in that tortuous-looking chair all night.” Pendergast gestured to the bed, drawing himself to one side of it. “And I owe you the tale of Fosco’s little plan.”

“You sure you’re feeling well enough to - ”

“I am.”

“You want me to dig out your pajamas or your dressing gown, or…” The thought of lying on the bed next to Pendergast, knowing he was naked under the duvet, was disconcerting to say the least.

“I am quite comfortable, Vincent.” There was a hint of amusement in Pendergast’s voice. Not really what he wanted. With a sigh, D’Agosta nodded and lay down beside Pendergast. After spending the afternoon in the chair, he had to admit the bed felt good.

Learning the details of Pendergast’s capture, drugging and imprisonment made D’Agosta furious all over again, not to mention a little sick to his stomach. If he hadn’t been so persistent in looking for Pendergast, another few hours and the man would certainly have suffocated, with Fosco triumphant. D’Agosta was extremely grateful that neither of those things had come to pass. He found it far easier on his conscience to gloss over his part in Fosco’s last minutes, at least for the time being.

D’Agosta noted that Pendergast looked not only tired, he also seemed physically uncomfortable. Putting aside the tray, he slid flat on the bed, again curled in a semi-fetal position.

“You okay? I’ve got plenty more of the pain pills,” D’Agosta offered, frowning.

“No, thank you. My joints are still painful,” Pendergast explained. “Chains are rather unforgiving to flesh and bone.”

Okay, Vinnie. Something you can do for him, if you just keep your cool. D’Agosta took the stopper from the top of the cruet of olive oil on the tray, and sniffed. The odor was fairly faint; it was pretty good stuff the widow served her guests.

“If you think it might help, I could give you a sort of rubdown. My sister and I, we used to do it for my granddad. We were pretty good at it, I guess. I can use the olive oil - just a little, you won’t be smelling like pesto or anything,” D’Agosta stammered awkwardly, sure that he was going to be refused, and that he’d blown it with Pendergast besides.

Pendergast gazed at him for a long moment, apparently making up his mind about something. He cocked his head slightly, in that way he had, and a faint smile lifted his lips.

“If you are sure you don’t mind, Vincent. It is a kind offer. But only if you are sure.”

D’Agosta could swear that Pendergast wasn’t just talking about the rubdown. A shiver ran down his spine at the thought. He was beginning to doubt that keeping his cool was going to be an option.

“I’m sure.” D’Agosta returned Pendergast’s look. Whatever Pendergast was searching for in him, let him find it if he could; he wasn’t going to hide either his feelings or his uncertainty from the agent, that would be really stupid.

“Thank you, then,” Pendergast agreed, closing his eyes. D’Agosta sat on the bed and poured a very small amount of the oil into his palm. He warmed it for a moment before putting his hands on Pendergast’s shoulders first, one at a time, working at trying to loosen the tendons and ligaments, warming the joints.

Though largely silent as usual, the occasional grimace, gasp or sigh also emerged from Pendergast. At first D’Agosta was afraid he was in actual pain, but as he continued to work on the stiff joints he realized that they were sounds of relief…of pleasure; that he was, indeed, doing for Pendergast exactly what he’d wanted to do.

D’Agosta moved from shoulders to elbows. He worked a long time on the abused, abraded wrists and hands. Pendergast’s mouth drifted open in relaxation. D’Agosta could feel the muscles soften beneath his hands. The trust that Pendergast was placing in him was a shock. It also had the effect of keeping his unpredictable libido in check.

On to the knees now, bruised and scraped, and then, finally, the ankles. D’Agosta worked just as carefully at the end as he had at the beginning, even though he knew that Pendergast was by now soundly asleep. It was exactly what he needed. He’d really been through the ringer.

When he finished, D’Agosta got up and took the tray of food away. He poured himself a glass of wine and went to stand at the window. It was just dark; the moon wouldn’t be rising for a while. The courtyard below was peaceful. He heard a noise in the hallway and opened the door. The signora was retreating, having left another tray of food, a bit more hearty fare this time, for their dinner. D’Agosta set it on the table, picking at the food listlessly. He realized that he was very tired. Too tired to think about anything right now. He looked at the comfortable, inviting bed, and the empty space next to Pendergast. Stripping down to his t-shirt and shorts, he turned the oil lamp down low and lay on the bed. He was asleep within minutes.

 

                                                                       ***

 

D’Agosta bolted upright, his heart pounding. Pendergast had thrown off the duvet and was thrashing around, mumbling and crying out in his sleep. D’Agosta put out a hand to his shoulder; it came away wet with sweat.

Pendergast was caught in the grip of an obvious nightmare. His hair and the pillow were soaked. D’Agosta grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him awake. So deep was the nightmare that it took a moment. When he finally opened his eyes and they locked on D’Agosta’s face, relief was palpable in the tremors that ran through his body; tremors that soon became uncontrollable shivers of fear, dread, relief…and perhaps the hope of solace.

With some vague thought of it being time to put his money where his mouth was, so to speak, D’Agosta pulled Pendergast into his arms and held on tight, so Pendergast could feel the strength surrounding him. Pendergast’s head rested on his shoulder. He gasped spasmodically for air; maybe in his dream he’d been back behind the wall again.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. Fosco’s dead, and you’re free. You’re free, and I’ve got you,” D’Agosta soothed, “and I’m not going to let anything happen to you.” He rocked, slowly, cradling Pendergast in his arms. The realization that it was the invincible Pendergast who needed and wanted his comfort was both wonderful and awful, but there was no denying it. Much later, D’Agosta realized it was about then that he stopping thinking about right or wrong or weird or normal and just went with his gut.

“Vincent,” Pendergast whispered against his shoulder some time later, “what would I do without you?” He was quiet now. The shaking had stopped, and his breathing was nearly normal. He made no attempt to move, however. He seemed quite content where he was, a fact that was not lost on D’Agosta, stroking the damp silky hair at the back of his neck.

“Probably just fine,” D’Agosta murmured, not knowing what else to say.

“You know better,” Pendergast breathed into his skin, lips hot against his collarbone, “and so do I.” He didn’t speak after that. He did, however, put his arms around D’Agosta’s waist, hands resting damply against his back.

They sat for some minutes in a silence that, surprisingly, was not at all awkward. D’Agosta still rocked softly. Eventually he let himself fall back on the bed, bringing Pendergast with him. Pendergast curled his body against D’Agosta’s, his head at D’Agosta’s shoulder, arm draped over his side. In moments, they were both asleep.

 

                                                                     ***

 

How long they were asleep, however, was difficult to determine. When D’Agosta woke, it was still dark outside…and Pendergast lay pressed along his whole body. He felt himself stiffening in response. He was no longer freaked out about it; as a matter of fact, he knew he was gathering speed on the path to doing something about it, although what, exactly, he was still a little unsure about.

Pendergast stretched, sighed…and again pressed himself comfortably against D’Agosta. A hand moved up to stroke his shoulder, then moved lightly to his ribs. It eventually settled at his hip, hot, damp, and familiar in an odd way. D’Agosta gasped in surprise, and at how good it felt. He ought to be wanting to pull away, to keep this from happening, whatever ‘this’ might turn out to be, but he didn’t. He was scared as hell, and he still hoped he wasn’t going to make an ass of himself, but saying ‘no thanks’ was no longer an option.

“Vincent?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you all right?”

“I think so.”

“Is anything I’m doing making you uncomfortable?”

“Oh, yeah - but not in the way I think you mean,” D’Agosta chuckled nervously.

“What do you want to happen…if anything…between us?” Pendergast asked in the darkness. D’Agosta wondered if he imagined a slightly nervous quiver to the usually smooth-as-butter drawl.

“I can’t put it into words, Pendergast. I’m not educated like you are. I don’t want to say it, anyway, I want to do it. To you. With you.” D’Agosta felt a drop of sweat slide down his cheek from his forehead. He couldn’t explain it any better than that, even to himself.

He actually heard Pendergast exhale, as if he’d been holding his breath.

“Education has nothing to do with it. Some things must be experienced, and words only get in the way. We would appear to be in such a situation.”

How did Pendergast manage to combine gravity, honesty, and humor into such few words?

“But I don’t know what I’m doing. I mean…I’ve never…. I’ll get it all wrong,” D’Agosta worried.

“I don’t think you will,” Pendergast assured him. “There are some things, Vincent, which, when they come from the right place within, are never ‘wrong’. I’ve told you before, I trust your instincts.” He smiled slightly.

“But if it’s just me…if it’s not something you’d want - ”

“Vincent,” Pendergast sighed, “perhaps you had better survey the territory once more.” For a split second, D’Agosta didn’t know what the hell he was talking about; then he realized that Pendergast’s erection was pressed tantalizingly against his. The ultra-reserved, always in control Pendergast definitely wanted this.

That realization put the kettle on to boil, as his mother used to say. With no further interest in conversation, D’Agosta rolled Pendergast onto his back. His hands tried to touch everywhere at once: hair, face, chest, and belly, craving the sensory connection. He knew he was probably pretty clumsy in his eagerness, but he didn’t care. If he couldn’t quite kiss Pendergast on the mouth, he didn’t feel shy about using his mouth elsewhere. He couldn’t get enough of touching, stroking and tasting the responsive body beneath his. The fever hot, damp feel of smooth, soft skin beneath his fingers made him dizzy.

As if Pendergast read his mind, hands efficiently stripped him of his t-shirt and shorts and the lean body arced up to meet his, their cocks sliding slick and hot between their thighs. The sensation was alien yet welcoming somehow, as if his body had known it before and was only coming home.

Experimentally, D’Agosta gave one nipple a touch of his tongue. Pendergast gasped audibly, guiding D’Agosta’s head down to his breast. He shivered, and moaned softly as D’Agosta began to pay serious attention to this new development.

Earlier, half-dreaming, he’d thought about this…about giving Pendergast pleasure…about maybe really turning him on, but in his mind it was just fantasy. The evidence vibrating in his arms and Pendergast’s uninhibited response made him feel totally out of control and yet at the same time, in control in the best sense.

Adrenaline and the sharp musk of sex in the air drove D’Agosta on. Pendergast was now groaning aloud with pleasure. D’Agosta nipped and licked a bit lower, sucking at the fine gooseflesh of the flat stomach, tonguing Pendergast’s navel. His breath was coming in shallow gasps, hips twisting in D’Agosta’s grasp.

“You’re making me so damn hot,” D’Agosta blurted, shocking himself.

“I believe, my dear Vincent…the expression is…likewise,” Pendergast gasped. He reached to touch himself, and D’Agosta brushed his hand away, replacing it with his own. Pendergast thrust into the hand, gazing up at him with slitted, almost feline eyes, intense in the flush of lust.

D’Agosta realized that he didn’t trust himself to bring Pendergast off with his mouth. He’d never imagined doing such a thing, and he didn’t want to fuck it up at a critical moment. He was no expert, and Pendergast knew that. It was just going to happen the old-fashioned way. Pendergast hadn’t complained so far, anyway.

D’Agosta reached down to the dinner tray and grabbed the olive oil. He poured some into his hands and then dribbled a little, slowly, onto the cornsilk hair at Pendergast’s groin, and onto his cock. Pendergast clenched his fists in impatience, but smiled…almost grinned…encouragingly.

For several seconds, D’Agosta let Pendergast’s cock slide in and out of his hand, propelled by eager, almost desperate hip thrusts. Do-it-yourself wasn’t part of the fantasy, though, and since he seemed to be calling the shots for now, D’Agosta shook his head.

“Hold still,” he ordered quietly.

Pendergast agreed with a sigh, and a nod. He kept his eyes on D’Agosta as the cop began to work his cock. D’Agosta heard every gasp, every groan, saw every shudder as Pendergast’s pale eyes locked on his face.

“Yeah, that’s it. That’s it,” he crooned. “Ah, yeah.” The realization that his words probably sounded like dialogue from a cheesy gay porn flick turned D’Agosta on for reasons he didn’t understand. Pendergast’s body was covered with a sheen of sweat, his hair soaking the pillow. There was a look almost of pain in his eyes, as if he couldn’t bear the tension any longer yet knew he had no choice.

Gradually, D’Agosta stepped up the rhythm, oil slick fingers sliding and squeezing with firm purpose. Pendergast grunted softly, not even aware that his hips were again moving in uncontrolled response. D’Agosta felt the first faint, spasmodic twitching of release beneath his fingers.

“Give it to me,” he demanded sharply. “Come on, give it to me.” He pulled, quickly and almost roughly, only another few seconds before Pendergast gave a soft cry and erupted suddenly, spilling over D’Agosta’s fist.

The look on Pendergast’s face as he came was more than worth D’Agosta’s awkwardness and lack of confidence. It also caused the intensity of his lust to fade into an odd tenderness. He held onto Pendergast’s cock until it was soft in his hand, stroking the wet hair back from his forehead with his other hand. “Did I do okay?” Still breathing hard, Pendergast brought a hand up to touch his.

“More than ‘okay’, Vincent. Very much more,” he sighed, that faint, amused Pendergast smile touching his lips. “Your excellent investigative skills were once again in evidence.” D’Agosta knew that Pendergast was teasing, but he was warmed by the knowledge that he also meant what he said.

“You are a uniquely intuitive, courageous man, Vincent D’Agosta, and I intend to demonstrate my gratitude,” Pendergast told him, serious again, “that is, if you want me to?”

Pendergast’s hand brushed his cock, and the response was so sharp it was painful. His only thoughts had been of Pendergast, but now that his fantasy had come to pass, he would have to deal with the other part of that fantasy --- the part he hadn’t allowed himself to think about before.

“Yeah,” he whispered. Pendergast nodded. This was one of the reasons they worked well together; few words were necessary, and both knew that their understanding of a situation went beyond the words anyway.

Pendergast pressed him back on the bed. D’Agosta now felt shy about his body. Pendergast was in shape, and he wasn’t --- at least, not the way he wanted to be. He was getting there, but he still had more beer gut than he felt good about. He mentally contrasted Pendergast’s pale smoothness with his own olive skin, as hairy as most Italians. He felt ugly in comparison to Pendergast’s sophisticated Southern gentleman. Unlike Pendergast, he wanted to close his eyes when he was touched so he wouldn’t see the resignation, or even disgust, in the gray eyes.

Yet in spite of this, he couldn’t remember when he’d been surveyed with such gentle, genuine affection. Certainly not by Lydia, not for years if ever. The long, thin fingers took their time, exploring thoroughly. They brushed, teasing, over the thick, sweat-soaked swirls of hair on his chest and belly, thumbs rubbing his nipples until…sweet Jesus, Pendergast took one in his mouth, biting down lightly. Now he did close his eyes, so he could concentrate on the slow, easy pleasure Pendergast was giving him.

Pendergast stroked and bit and licked his way down, and every minute of it was heaven. Where he had been almost frantic in his reaction to the situation and to Pendergast’s responsiveness, Pendergast was taking his time, teasing his body through peaks and valleys of pleasure, sometimes so sharp it hurt, followed by the thrill of gentle, rolling waves of it.

D’Agosta groaned aloud when Pendergast’s mouth engulfed him. He definitely knew what to do, and he was very, very good. So good it made D’Agosta want to cry, or scream with pleasure. Deft fingers stroked his balls as Pendergast sucked him. D’Agosta thought maybe he’d die, it felt so good. He opened his eyes once, and had a view of Pendergast lying between his legs, hands on his thigh and groin, head bobbing with the rhythm of sucking his cock. Mother of God! He was coming, and he wanted to and he didn’t. He wanted Pendergast doing this to him for days, weeks. He wanted the closeness and the sex and the adrenaline pouring through him. It had been so long since sex had been all these things for him.

Pendergast’s tongue stroked the head of his cock, the knowing hands milking his balls not too hard but just hard enough. D’Agosta couldn’t hold on any longer. He came, murmuring soft obscenities as if they were words of love. He came in Pendergast’s mouth, and Pendergast sucked him until he was dry and soft. It was unreal, and better than any fantasy.

Pendergast flopped down on the bed beside him now, too tired to do anything but curl up once more and fall into a post-coital doze. Once his heart stopped racing, D’Agosta rolled Pendergast into his arms, the blonde head resting on his shoulder.

“Thanks,” he whispered against Pendergast’s forehead before he too fell asleep.

 

                                                                     ***

 

The sun would be up soon. D’Agosta lay on his back. Pendergast now lay on his side, face towards the window, still asleep. He wondered how Pendergast would react in the light of day. Would he regret what had happened? Would he be horrified, but too much of a gentleman to show it? D’Agosta didn’t think he could bear Pendergast’s regret, or his awkward pity.

He had no regrets. It had been…amazing, both that he had wanted to do those things with Pendergast, and that Pendergast had clearly enjoyed himself. He knew he wasn’t gay. Having sex with Pendergast had not erased thoughts of the sex he’d had with Laura just before they left home; in fact, the sex brought Laura into his thoughts. But he wasn’t ashamed of what had happened, and it’d be fine with him if it happened again. Sex with Pendergast and sex with Laura was two very different things. If he didn’t know exactly how it was different, or where the desire came from and why it came, he knew it came from a different place inside him. Somehow, that actually made it easier to accept, if not easier to understand. Hell, who needed to understand it? As long as Pendergast wasn’t sorry….

A cock crowed somewhere in the courtyard, and Pendergast stretched. D’Agosta held his breath.

At first, he thought it was the morning breeze raising goosebumps on his belly, but then he realized it was fingertips, with just enough pressure to stir his nerve endings all over again. A hand smoothed along his ribs, caressing slowly. This was different than last night, which had mostly been about lust. Pendergast was answering his question before he’d hardly had time to think about it.

His cock jumped in response, bumping against Pendergast’s stomach. One hand stroking his back down to his ass, Pendergast pulled him closer. He complied quickly. It felt good to have his body fuse to Pendergast’s, nipple to nipple, groin to groin. Pendergast rolled on top of him, their legs tangling.

D’Agosta opened his eyes and found Pendergast’s face only inches from his. As soon as their eyes met, D’Agosta knew that Pendergast wanted to kiss him. It was scarier than anything he’d done or thought about, fantasy or reality, up to now. His heart pounding so loudly he would have sworn Pendergast could hear it, he opened his mouth at the first brush of Pendergast’s lips.

The kiss was deep, and hungry. It seared and blistered, hard and hot and full of desire. It coaxed and teased; it incited and demanded, and D’Agosta felt himself responding in all those ways, mixed with tenderness. Although he would never talk about it, there was a need in Pendergast that was more than just physical, and D’Agosta wanted to fill it for him if he could, even if it was only here and now.

Pendergast’s hips moved against his. Slick with pre-cum, their cocks slid and pressed against each other in a steady rhythm. They teased each other along, bodies damp and hard to hold onto. D’Agosta licked the sweat from the indentation beneath Pendergast’s collarbone. Pendergast sucked wetly at a nipple. They plucked and mouthed each other like instruments in almost perfect concert, until the need for release became foremost. They ground into one another fiercely, so hard that D’Agosta was afraid the bed frame would give. On one thrust, he managed to capture Pendergast’s cock between his thighs. He squeezed hard, and felt a trickle of warmth between his legs that rolled down to tickle his balls. The sensation triggered his own orgasm against Pendergast’s hard stomach. Good morning to you, too.

The sun was well up by the time they had recovered. There were sounds of the house stirring below the window, and D’Agosta heard the widow’s footsteps outside the door, leaving them breakfast. He felt a light touch on his arm; the same touch Pendergast had given when he’d told him, light years ago in the scheme of things, how much he was trusted and valued.

“Regrettably, I think it would be a good idea if we bathed and left here, Vincent,” Pendergast announced. “We have tarried long enough, and should be on the road.”

“I know. I figured you’d want to give the violin to Lady Maskelene yourself,” D’Agosta replied.

“Yes, that will be my objective…eventually. And Captain Hayward will be most anxious about your welfare. Will you fly home soon?” Was there a question within a question in Pendergast’s voice?

“As soon as I leave you with Lady Maskelene.”

“Agreed. There is, however, no great hurry to arrive on Capraia. You really haven’t seen as much of Italy as you should, Vincent, having come all this way,” Pendergast mused, his eyes bright. “I think a small detour might be in order, say another two or three days, before we turn up on Lady Maskelene’s doorstep. Are you game?”

Was there a question that Pendergast didn’t already have the answer to?

This wasn’t going to change either of their lives in any earth-shattering way. Pendergast would have whatever he would have with Lady Viola, a woman of culture and breeding; a woman of his own background. He would fly home to Laura Hayward, and at least for the foreseeable future, they would make passionate love when their schedules meshed, and get to know each other better. Yet he and Pendergast had something too, and whatever it might be, Pendergast was letting him know that it was real and that he wasn’t ready for it to end.

Two or three days. It might be all the time they would ever have together, or it might not. There were no promises or declarations, just a jumble of strong emotions that would take time to sort out, if he ever could. If it mattered. But for now, nothing was more important than living in the moment. After all, when in Rome….

“Sounds good to me,” D’Agosta grinned.

 


End file.
